


Elementary, My Dear Potter

by nodamncatnodamncradle



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drarry, Harco, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-06
Updated: 2013-08-06
Packaged: 2017-12-22 14:34:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/914329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nodamncatnodamncradle/pseuds/nodamncatnodamncradle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If it seems like an attempted Sherlock parallel, it's probably a Sherlock parallel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this begins in the present and continues in the past. It isn't a close parallel to Sherlock in any significant sense. I just like the idea of Draco being a detective and Harry being a Healer and using the brilliant writing of BBC Sherlock on occasion.

_Prologue_

"He's gone."

The mental health healer nodded. This was progress—small, but progressive nonetheless. She dictated the moment carefully, sure to date and time the new level.

"Good, Harry. That's very good. Can you tell me who has gone?"

Harry's grip tightened on the left arm of his chair. The question wasn't meant to condescend. In fact, it held next to no tone whatsoever. However, this was a child's question and Harry had lost that innocence quite some time ago.

He cleared his throat and attempted to relax in posture—a futile effort in such a condition.

"Draco Malfoy."

"And where has he gone?"

 _Oh for pity's sake._ "He's passed."

The healer scratched something against her off-yellow tablet. Harry never asked about her notes. Not only was he decidedly disinterested, he also had the sneaking suspicion that these notes would only encourage his already profound tension.

"Where has he passed to, Harry?" she asked, adding quickly, "We're almost there."

Harry took a deep breath and ignored the slight shudder of his frame. A moment passed before he realized a wetness staining his cheek and chin. When the crying began, he couldn't say. The quiet sobs seemed endless and he felt entirely ashamed for allowing himself to succumb to such a poor state.

"Um, Draco Malfoy passed away," he held his hand upwards to stop the following question he was always promised.  _Passed away. Harry, we're evading the word again. Harry, what are you trying to say?_

He inhaled slowly through his nose and exhaled at an impossibly slower speed through clenched teeth.

With eyes shut tightly, Harry said, "Draco Malfoy is dead. Draco Malfoy was my best friend and he's dead. He killed himself. I watched him die."

She nodded again. A smile would have been inappropriate. She scratched another note and the sound made Harry itch and ache to flee the confines of this steadily enclosing space.

He was suffocating.

"What else?"

"You know I don't believe the rest of it. I refuse."

"Harry, Draco confessed this to you before he passed. Sometimes we want to idolize those who have died in order to preserve them as something other than—"

Harry shook his head. No one would convince him that Draco told any sort of lie. Not in this life and not in the next. "He was never anything other than himself."

"Of course," she smiled. Sympathy oozed from every pore of her body. It had taken nearly three years for the pair to come this far. Harry continued to seek therapy through Hermione's insistence, but the sessions left him bereft and guilty for wasting this woman's time. "Tell me about your engagement. How is the planning coming?"

"It's going. Ginny takes care of most things. I've never been very good at that rubbish."

"You think weddings are rubbish."

Harry shrugged. "I think they're a bloody waste of time. Why does the government need to be involved with my relationships?"

"Do you love her?"

Harry's stilling was an abrupt rendition of a deer in headlights. "Pardon?"

_More scratching._

"Ginevra. Do you love her?"

"I don't see how that's any of your—" He paused. Of course it was her business; his bill said so. "We work well together."

"Is that the same as love?"

Deciding to focus on the stale coffee taste aggravating his senses, Harry ignored the question and wished the horrid flavor would disappear before it made his stomach turn. He wasn't nervous, nor was he biding his time.

Absolutely not.

"Have you been in love, Harry?"

He laughed—the sound bitter and hollow, and a fine distraction from the staleness in his breath. "Could you tell me what that feels like, Doctor?"

"You were a physician, Harry. Surely you know. It's a chemical reaction that stimulates the brain. It's a pleasurable experience, but one that can have unpleasant side effects. Knots in the stomach, obsessive tendencies, unusual behavior. The person's presence is normally a relief. Senses heighten and lessen all at once—awareness becomes acute to that person specifically. A dangerous enterprise, but a very human one."

Harry's answering chuckle was far from natural. His knuckles paled to an almost translucent pigment as he gripped impossibly tighter at his chair. Magic swelled in his core, and Harry worried momentarily that he might break this poor woman's seat.

"I—" he began and choked. "I don't know if I've ever felt that way."

She didn't make a note. The healer placed her notepad and pen on the table beside her and leaned forward, studying Harry with meticulous precision.

"Can I be frank with you, Mr. Potter?"

He would ask if he had a choice, but that was a useless question. There was always a choice.

Harry nodded and his doctor looked down towards her feet, twining her fingers together and sighing.

"You've been seeing me for three years. We discuss the same man at every session. And from what you've told me, this isn't the first time you've developed this sort of  _passion_ for him."

She was referring to their years in school, that much was obvious enough—though she'd never called it a  _passion_  before. Harry had a passion for Quidditch during Hogwarts and a knack for falling into trouble.

Could passion be negatively influenced? Perhaps…

Living with an Auror detective should have solidified as much. People could be passionate about next to anything. Hate was quite the disturbing motivation for passion.

 _Passion_ seemed too strong a word, too misguided.

_Too accurate._

"Suppose you're right. Hypothetically speaking. What exactly are you getting at?"

It wasn't new news. Hermione irked him for ages back at school.

_And I denied it then as well._

"Can I still be frank?"

"If I told you that you couldn't, would that really make a difference?"

She smirked. "Of course. I'd have to alter my vocabulary and riddle my way through such a point to allow you to come up with the thought on your own. Or, I can simply tell you what I'm thinking. Either way, the end results are the same."

"Give it to me straight, then. I have a feeling you've been keeping it for three years."

_The elephant in the room._

"I think," she started and reconsidered, sitting back in her chair and collecting her pen and pad. "I think you're quite capable of loving, Harry. I think you've loved all your life—at least a large portion of it. I think you're very accustomed to doing what's best for the whole as opposed to what's best for yourself. So much so, that ignoring instinct not specifically tailored to a group good has become natural. Obviously you can't want something if you never allow the want to come into being in the first place."

Harry couldn't argue just yet. His healer was still speaking in riddles. Perhaps it was only natural.

The silence stretched for an uncomfortable length of time, and Harry assumed this was the end of her speech. She wanted him to continue—to agree or retort.

"You think I was in love with Malfoy."

Her face softened. She stood and paced to Harry's side, bending to a knee and placing her hand atop the now loose fist resting on the left arm of his chair.

"I think you  _are_ , Mr. Potter."

Harry pursed his lips and looked away from the woman at his feet. The room was continuing to spiral inwards and fortunately, their time was coming to a close.

The former hero clumsily made for the door, and would have escaped unscathed had his palms not begun to sweat in earnest against the brass knob separating him from safety.

"And Harry," his doctor said quietly, "It's perfectly fine to be."

* * *

The flat was unlocked upon his arrival, unsurprising as Ginny had a knack for forgetting such trivial matters. Harry threw his now useless keys on the hook beside the door and avoided the mirror attached beside it. He felt like a right mess and presumed he looked as such.

No need to bring a reflection into it.

"Ginny," he called, hearing the kettle begin to steam. "Ginny, your tea is—"

Heart ceasing to beat, Harry braced himself against the arch to the kitchen. He was hallucinating. He hadn't done so in months, but it wasn't the most irregular occurrence. At least this mirage appeared healthy enough—nowhere near the regular deceased image he was blessed night and day with.

However, the sight didn't falter or flicker. It turned the heat of the stove off and poured water into two already prepared mugs.

"I'm glad your therapy is routine. I was afraid you'd come home to cold tea."

Harry gulped and his eyes snapped shut to will away the figure closing in on him.

When he'd found the courage to reopen them, Draco Malfoy was still very much in existence—a foot away and offering him a steaming cup.

"Careful, it's quite hot," he warned, eyebrow rising as Harry merely stared then blinked in a rush of disbelief. "Oh, yes. I'm back. Sorry for the delay."

The Malfoy patented smirk was firmly set, and not even Harry's vivid imagination could recreate such a trait perfectly.

He did the only logical thing: knocked the mug clear from Draco's hand and rammed his fist with as much force as he could muster into his presumed-dead flatmate's cheek.


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter One_

Autumn was such a strange season—distinctly unique as it could produce rain, snow, and blistering heat all within days of each other. Today happened to be one of the few tolerable-without-many-layers afternoons outside of Saint Mungo's hospital walls.

On Thursdays, Ron joined Harry for lunch—it'd become routine since Harry's return from active duty, and provided the pair a bit of privacy from Hermione.

"I love the woman, you know that. I just don't think having another kid is worth the reign of terror."

Harry laughed, he knew well how Hermione operated having lived with the couple for three months in search of an affordable apartment. Of course, nothing was even remotely affordable alone and on a Healer's salary, so the search changed to locating a roommate willing to split some moderately priced London flat.

"I can't imagine why you'd want to leave," Ron grumbled and tossed the remnants of his lunch in the bin nearby. "Honestly, though, she'll only milk this for another couple of months. It'll settle after that and we love having you."

"You love having a physician and an infant in the same room."

The redhead shrugged, an impish grin painted over his lips. "Can't blame a bloke for trying."

A comfortable silence hovered in the air—as if Harry hadn't disappeared for close to a decade and randomly reappeared on his best friends' doorstep without warning.

Fortunately, this wasn't the strangest three months of their relationship. Next to hunting horcruxes and a dark lord, a surprise visit and rapidly approaching parenthood was actually rather normal.

"I think it's time I started on my own again. And besides, how can you ditch the kid with me if I'm living in the same house?"

"I do know a guy at work looking for a roommate. I think he has a place already, but it should be well and good knowing him." Ron stared ahead, refusing to make eye contact with Harry. "I can set you up."

"Didn't think to mention it before?" Again, Ron's shoulders rose and fell before he stood and glanced at his watch—feigning surprise at the time.

"I have to run, but I'll have him meet us for drinks tomorrow night and you can decide what you'd like to do."

Not waiting for a reply, and at least fifteen minutes earlier than usual, the Auror almost jogged away leaving Harry absolutely confused but still as desperate as he'd started.

* * *

In the Muggle Force, Harry learned to use a cellular telephone and was terribly surprised to find that they'd made their way into the Wizarding World as well. Ron was floored by the technology, but no one held an interest as intense as Arthur Weasley.

_At the bar—R._

The message was received well over an hour ago, but a sudden case of dragon pox kept Harry and his team of swooning nurses long past quitting time. A decade seemed to have done no real damage to his fame, but this was his home. Running away was no longer an option.

He arrived at the Womping Willow still covered in unknown bodily fluids and fought back a laugh after coming to the conclusion that most of the tenants of this pub were clad in a similar fashion. This place was once a well-kept secret but wasn't any successful business?

Genuine progress had a knack for ruining the original product and marring it to within a centimeter of its former identity.

Harry took a seat at the bar, unable to locate Ron and under the assumption he was using the loo or baiting the man in charge of the music not a soul could hear anyway.

"Well, if it isn't the Boy Who Refused to Die!"

 _That voice…_ Harry's stomach churned and his gaze landed in a glare on none other than Draco Malfoy.

" _Malfoy_?"

"Obviously," he stated with a tone of distaste before sipping at the dark beverage in his hand and ignoring Harry just as quickly as he'd acknowledged him.

_Limey little twat._

"Isn't this a bit lowly for an Undesired?"

Malfoy smirked, the movement conjuring an unhealthy bout of nostalgia. "I'd compliment your clever retort, but only one of us has made that poster." Not bothering to address Harry in even his peripheral vision, Malfoy finished his drink in one go and winced. "If you'd like, I'd be happy to give you a hint."

"Oi, Harry! Glad to know you dressed to make an impression," Ron interrupted and smacked Harry's back with a bit too much force to be considered entirely sober. "Couldn't wait for you to piss, mate. How are you two getting on?"

Malfoy choked, though it must have been on his own breath or saliva since his glass was empty. That thought was oddly satisfying to the Healer until reality struck him like an ice cold shower.

" _This_ is the friend you wanted me to meet?  _Harry Potter_?"

"Ron, a word outside, yeah?"

Sheepishly, the Auror followed Harry and braced himself against the autumn night air. "It's cold as a witch's tit out here, Harry!"

"If you weren't a bit smashed, you wouldn't have left your coat inside. Tell me, Ron, were you out of your bloody mind drunk when you came up with this whole roommate charade yesterday, because drinking that early is the one of the first signs of alcoholism and you can't blame Hermione since I'm rather sure she doesn't condone any sort of drug use while she's pregnant—"

"Slow the fuck down, 'Arry! I can only process so much at once and you're giving me a headache!" Ron rubbed at his temples and dropped to his arse, leaning against the piss stained outer wall of the pub. "You need a roommate. He's been looking for weeks and you survived a killing curse! You can survive Malfoy's company."

"Speak of the devil and he shall appear," that very same devil all but sung. Ron collected his coat from Malfoy and stayed seated. "Tolerance of a child, you have."

"Weren't all raised on liquor, prat."

"I think you were raised on hay, Weasley."

The redhead chuckled and flipped the former Death Eater off in good humor. Harry wondered if perhaps he'd returned to an alternate universe.

That would certainly explain the predicament he found himself in.

"Potter, I've considered my options," Malfoy announced and turned on his heel to finally face Harry. He hadn't aged a day—aside from his face sharpening even further at the edges. "We're both in need of a flatmate and I'm in a bit of a crunch time-wise. I know you're disinterested in playing uncle to the future Weasley offspring and enduring the oncoming brutality of Hermione's later term."

Harry wanted to protest, but Malfoy raised a hand and continued, "No need to defend yourself. Potter, you're not a nanny and I doubt that's what they had you operating in the British Army."

"Why would Ron—"

"Ron didn't need to tell me. Your hair is beginning to grow in from a buzzed cut, and you were never one to have an organized style by choice. You hardly move your left arm, leading me to believe you were injured at some point, but it wasn't immediately tended to—nor was it ever tended to properly. Had it been a matter of magic your body would have eventually persisted, if your history with magical maladies were anything to go by. I'm sure I could astound you with some deductions about your position, but your vomit and blood stained scrubs are more than enough to convince me you're in the medical field and not at all a nanny."

Harry blinked carefully and studied the man he once considered his rival. They were adults now. House rivalry no longer existed. There were no dark lords to chase. There was a flat in need of two and a Healer in need of one.

"Here's the address. I'll be around tomorrow at noon." Malfoy handed him a neat, folded bit of parchment and smiled almost pleasantly. "I'm sure I can trust you to take care of your current roommate."

And he was gone, the harsh snap of an Apparition left in his wake.

"He likes dramatic exits," Ron slurred and stood. "I think it's a bit ridiculous, but it scares the piss out of Parkinson at the office."

* * *

Draco paced outside of the flat he would no longer be able to afford in a month's time. He was ninety-four point twelve percent certain Potter would accept his offer.

That final, unaccounted amount left him decidedly uncomfortable.

Granted, living with one of the most famous wizards in history wasn't precisely the flatmate Draco assumed he'd find, but if he was certain of anything at one hundred percent accuracy, it was Potter's inability to back away from a challenge.

If he roomed with Draco, he was in for better or worse. The man was dedicated. A foolish trait, but a truth nonetheless.

As time progressed, however, Draco wondered if Potter was still intrigued by the prospect of dedicating his sanity to a former enemy—wondered if that streak of unnecessary curiosity would lead him here and keep him long enough for Draco to develop another course of action.

Hope was a dangerous enterprise.

_I said noon. He's an hour late._

For an appointment Potter never committed to.

True to London fashion, Draco felt the beginnings of rain collide with the tip of his nose. A slight breeze blew steady, cool air, and the former Death Eater made to tighten the knot of his scarf and flip the collar of his coat upwards to shield himself. Fortunately, there was the smallest area of coverage from the weather, but that also left Draco's room to pace unbearably tight and confined.

"Malfoy!"

Draco produced a smirk quickly and efficiently before smothering the would-be-considered-instigating expression and deciding it was far easier to attract bees with honey for the time being.

"Potter," he greeted readily. "Glad you could turn up."

"Called in for a replacement this morning at Mungo's," Potter explained in a huffed gust of breath. He must have rushed here immediately—a positive sign. "Sorry I'm so late."

Draco smiled, desperately stifling the twitch he felt rising to the corner of his eye. "No apology necessary. Would you care to see the inside? At the very least, we should get out of the rain."

Potter glanced upwards as if he hadn't noticed the weather turning sour before shaking his newly discovered damp head of hair and nodding once—albeit reluctantly.

The flat was quaint, and Draco preferred it this way. Despite his upbringing, simplicity reigned supreme over his adult life. At first, it wasn't much of a choice. But it soon proved far less stressful. And the absence of an abundance of  _things_ cleared his mind—making his work priority. Eventually, deleting  _things_ morphed into deleting unnecessary knowledge. While most only utilized ten percent of the mind, Draco discovered the key to unlocking a higher fraction.

He hadn't had much else to do at the time.

"This is it," Draco announced. "Two floors. There's another bedroom up the stairs. Shared bathroom, I'm afraid. There's a fully functional kitchen, I believe, in the back."

"Haven't you seen the kitchen?"

"Obviously," Draco snapped before he could manage otherwise. "I mean to say that I believe it's functional. I haven't had much use for its intended purposes."

"Eating?"

"Precisely."

Potter quieted and Draco toured—tedious, but a necessary evil. He didn't ask questions, and for that small miracle, Draco was relieved. Being moderately friendly was beginning to take a toll.

Potter explored what could potentially be his half of the flat on his own and Draco welcomed the time alone, managing to boil water without setting the home to flames and ruin. Tea was the proper gesture for this sort of thing, if he wasn't mistaken.

And he hardly ever was.

"You know how to make tea." It was a statement with an underlying aftertaste of questioning.

"I  _am_  British, Potter. My dietary patterns have no say in regards to our people's DNA."

"But, you don't eat. Isn't that part of a basic human's DNA?"

Draco smiled. Potter would learn to watch his vocabulary if he stayed. "For  _basic humans_ , certainly."

"You know what I meant, prat."

Of course he did. But if it wasn't just a delight to know he hadn't lost his touch. "I don't make a habit out of eating. The body can survive up to three weeks without food."

" _Survive_ , yes. But it doesn't function properly if it's starved."

"I never did say I was starving myself, did I? I eat when I find the act necessary."

Potter shook his head with both eyebrows raised in disbelief. He was a doctor—Muggle and Magical. Draco was a physical anomaly. People had limits, and Potter would soon find that Draco wasn't the average person. Assuming he chose to pay half the rent.

"What do you need a roommate for, Malfoy?"

"Isn't that obvious? To help cut the living expenses." Really, had he already begun to lose intelligence at such an early age?

Potter rolled his eyes and crossed his arms about his chest. "Why would you need a flatmate if you have enough money to purchase London?"

"The money you speak of is my father's," Draco explained casually. It wouldn't do to divulge his entire life story. "And as my father and I are not on the best of terms, his money is not an option."

"What went on between you and your father?"

_No couth. Not even an ounce._

The doctor wouldn't know truth from lie, but this would be the difference between total disclosure and walking on eggshells. Draco did so hate each choice. It wasn't a matter of trust, but a matter of pride and privacy.

"Do you see a woman here, Potter?"

Draco expected the man to actually search. He was surprised to find that Potter hadn't flinched, hadn't moved a single muscle—including the muscles still maintaining his heightened brow.

Potter was  _suspicious._

Very interesting, indeed.

"No. I can't say I've seen a woman since I've come in."

"And with my history, with my  _blood_ , shouldn't it stand to reason that I have a sound, pureblood woman bound by marriage and ignoring my heirs at this age?"

"I don't know much about your blood, but I s'pose that's how your lot tends to breed."

 _As if I were an animal._ "There's your answer, Potter."

The Healer's eyes narrowed, though his posture stayed strained—looking closer, Potter's knees were slightly bent, not locked, as if he anticipated a need to pounce at some point. His arms weren't crossed to suggest attitude—they were protecting his chest. The tight tendons of his arms screamed so. It was a barrier. Potter was suspicious and  _prepared_.

How curious!

"You didn't find some pureblood to marry, so your father decided to cut you off."

"Close, but not entirely. I  _was_ engaged to Astoria Greengrass."

"But you didn't marry her."

"Obviously not."

"And there was no one after her."

"Obviously not."

Potter's fists clenched and relaxed, his jaw following suit. "Would you stop saying that? It's not obvious to me. I'd call us strangers if you hadn't tried to kill me."

"If that's your criteria for acquaintances, are there any strangers left?"

And with that, Potter turned from the kitchen, and walked away. No yelling, no curses, just separation.

Draco could hardly believe it—couldn't even begin to fathom the reasoning behind the lurching in his stomach. He was an adult, for Merlin's sake. He was taunting the  _child_ from a decade ago, a time that no longer existed—a time he was quite sure he deleted from memory to make room for a case of werewolves turning Muggleborns a year or so prior to this moment.

At any rate, this was utterly ridiculous.

"Potter!"

The front door screeched and silenced. He was waiting, and Draco was enjoying the last of his pride.

Potter faced the street, but remained indoors—the rain still falling in a light drizzle. His shoulders were stiff, and his hair was in even further disarray from the back. His left arm, however, was bracing the door's edge—leading Draco to believe the lack of motion he'd deduced the day before was due to psychosomatic injury. Perhaps the banter distracted the pain.

"I need a flatmate. You're the only person who's shown a stitch of interest. I keep to myself and am caught up in my research most hours of the day and night. We shouldn't have to cross paths often, and if we do, we're old enough to know better than this."

The sigh Potter produced was heavy, but didn't carry the makings of a refusal.

His arm fell back to his side and he stepped out onto the pavement, opening his palms to collect droplets. Potter wouldn't look at Draco, but he wasn't leaving.

"I'll move in tomorrow," he said flatly. "And if we don't manage to kill each other in a month, I'll consider staying."

Draco nodded, pinching his lips into a tight line to refrain from grinning.

Potter was agreeing to try- a peace treaty and potential challenge if he'd ever heard one.


	3. Chapter 3

Living with Draco Malfoy, consulting Auror detective—a self-appointed title—was precisely as the former Death Eater described it. He and Harry rarely crossed paths. His shifts at Mungo's normally took the daylight hours and Malfoy's cases coincidentally veered towards the evening. Sharing a bathroom never became a problem, as Malfoy bathed quickly and efficiently—cleaning up after himself afterwards and leaving the room good as new. To Harry's extreme disbelief, Malfoy didn't exaggerate where his eating habits were concerned. So the kitchen, for its intended purpose, was Harry's. Though, on occasion, the Healer did find a questionable jar or two carefully quarantined as far from Harry's groceries as possible.

It was all too tolerable. And had Harry not been awoken on the random, yet not entirely unwelcomed, occasion by the sound of a practiced violin merely a floor below him, he would have assumed the place was only being rented by one tenant.

" _I didn't know you played the violin," Harry mentioned briefly after not having seen Malfoy in nearly a week's time—even in simple passing._

_The detective grunted, hunched over what appeared to be case notes that were scattered about the sitting room floor. "There wouldn't be a reason for you to know that about me."_

" _Right," Harry agreed and vowed never to make small talk with the man again._

Other than the cold distance, Harry couldn't complain. He didn't exactly mind the distance, either. If anything, it assured him he needn't try to befriend Malfoy for living's sake.

A small miracle.

His curiosity almost did him in a number of times—mostly about the contents of the jars, or photos left lying about. But he kept quiet. They weren't  _friends_.

In fact, Harry was quite positive Malfoy had no friends at all.

Two months would pass before a conversation outside of  _excuse me_  presented itself.

After a particularly grueling day of regrowing at least a dozen sets of newly legal wizards' limbs, Harry returned to the flat and immediately made for the kettle. A cup of tea would do wonders for him, but as he found himself draping his entire top half over the countertop as a makeshift bed, perhaps he'd forgo anything other than sleep.

"Ah, good. You're back. I'd like your assistance, so if you could possibly change out of those sullied bits of fabric and into anything not smelling of Skelagrow, that would be marvelous."

"Pardon?" Harry wondered, only lifting his head a centimeter or so from its resting place. His glasses were balancing precariously at the tip of his nose, but there was no real urgency to adjust his appearance.

Malfoy huffed and pinched the space between his eyes. "Your assistance, Potter. I require it. And repeating myself is tiresome."

"What could you possibly need me for?"

"Need isn't the word I used, but if it gets you moving a bit quicker, I  _need_ your assistance with a case that's come up. And I'd like to be on site before most of the evidence has moved beyond its original positioning or Finnigan's stared at it too long and gone blind."

Harry couldn't make heads or tails of Malfoy's ramblings, so he decided not to bother and let his head fall again. "No, Malfoy."

"Potter, I assumed you'd make this difficult. There's been a Muggle death and I haven't as much experience with that sort. I'm quite sure you've a better understanding of the Muggle body and Muggle death than I have."

"I'm not looking to repeat myself either, Malfoy.  _No_."

Suddenly, Malfoy was at his side, turning the burner off before the water in the kettle had the slightest opportunity to warm.

"Where's your sense of adventure gone? Surely you'd rather play the hero again instead of laze about the flat."

"Maybe it hasn't occurred to you, but I'm not looking to play the hero." Harry stood and wandlessly heated the water—opting to ignore the puzzled expression on Malfoy's face after the display.

Harry hadn't used a wand since before the Force. It wouldn't do to carry a stick of wood around on the battlefield. Muggles weren't always observant, but they weren't ignorant either.

"Look, that body could hold answers that make my job reasonably simpler and—"

"I've seen enough bodies, Malfoy!" Harry shouted, the cabinets shaking behind him. His magic was still unpredictable and even worse under stress. "Now, do politely  _fuck off_!"

A moment passed and the shaking stopped. Harry realized too late that he'd been holding onto the kettle and burning the first layer of skin off of his palm. The smell should have been putrid to his nostrils, but he'd learned early on to shut away his sense of smell in cases like these, lest he wished to see his lunch for a second time in a less appealing form.

When he remembered Malfoy's presence, he glanced upwards to meet the closest he'd ever witnessed Malfoy come to an apologetic look. Perhaps it was guilt-stricken thoughtfulness, but at least it wasn't a smirk or a scowl.

The detective nodded once and breathed deeply through his nose, smoothing his unwrinkled shirt. "Yes, well. I hadn't considered—"

_The picture I must make right now…_

Malfoy cleared his throat and paced to the armchair holding his coat and scarf, his hands went into the coat's pockets and fished something out to place on the table nearby.

And after a quickly scribbled note, he exited the flat—not another word uttered.

Harry reigned in his violent rage and soothed his hand under cool water. It would heal, and he would turn this into a learning experience.

And when he calmed, he walked over to the table to find Muggle money and a note.

_If you change your mind, and it's not much of an inconvenience, call a cab. This is a Muggle area._

An address was left beneath it. Harry's sanity managed to ignore the urge for all of five minutes before trudging up the stairs to his room, changing his clothes into something not bodily fluid scented, and muttering obscenities about his own stupidity.

The cab company took text messages now.

How expedient.

* * *

"Nobody move one bloody thing in this room!"

Draco knew everything he could know from the bodies lining the floor—well,  _body_ lining the floor. Five other individuals were tied at the ankles to chairs, the bonds binding their hands cut by a dull blade by the look of it. Three of the five wizards drooped forward onto the table they surrounded. The Muggle, female, was the unfortunate soul collapsed in a pool of combination fluids.

The team and detective had been staring at each other for next to an eternity at Draco's orders. He wasn't waiting for Potter.

Absolutely not.

And he wasn't feeling any sort of  _softness_ due to his distasteful goading.

Not at all.

"Finnigan! For Merlin's sake, the I.Q. of this room is dropping because of your incessant, bloody thinking! If you weren't meant to do something, you shouldn't do it! Stop challenging nature!"

"Glad to see the House rivalry is still going strong," a familiar voice mused.

Draco didn't bother masking his surprise, subtle as it was anyway. The only set of eyes currently on him was that of Potter's—and surprised was as close to grateful as Draco could come without contracting nausea.

"How good of you to come, Potter."

"Oi! Harry, what're you doin' in this neck of the woods?"

"For fuck's sake, Finnigan! Bugger off if you're going to keep speaking or breathing within a mile of me!"

Potter, oddly enough, didn't chastise Draco for his outburst and merely rolled his eyes, stuffing his hands into an oversized hooded sweatshirt. He wondered if the man owned anything of taste. Scrubs and sweats were more than likely comfortable, but not the makings of an entire wardrobe.

Though, the Boy Who Lived never needed much flair.

The Healer knelt by the body on the floor and studied its placement. "There was a struggle—a good one, too. Her fingernails are damn near ripped off from scratching, and whatever's left has some caked blood."

"Her jaw's broken as well," Draco contributed, "strong blow to the face. The rest were poisoned. I believe the Muggles call it Russian Roulette, though I don't believe the murderer intended for any of these wizards to win."

"Some burns to her cheek. But, they aren't natural. I'd say it was a piss poor spell by a caster who wouldn't understand the slight alterations needed to affect a Muggle—he just warped the skin. And it only goes two layers deep, three tops. Even first years have more control and potency than that."

"She attempted to cut them loose—didn't realize their feet were tied," and Potter's words registered. "Check her hands and arms. Any sign she blocked the spell?"

He shook his head. "None."

"She didn't know he could do magic. You don't see a wand and not block the blow if you know it's coming. That's her face. She must have seen it coming. You're sure about the weakness of the magic?"

"It was cast over about two hours ago and she died by strangling—look at her neck and facial color. This wizard may have been a squib, but I can't say for sure unless I had some time to analyze her skin."

"What kind of wizard kills with poison, Potter?" The Healer finally removed himself from the body and quirked an understanding smirk. "And assuming he's dealing with wizards, but living with Muggles, I'd say he's aggravating goblins at Gringotts."

"Exchanging galleons."

Draco held his hand out to Potter, recognizing there may be something impolite about reaching over a corpse. "You couldn't Apparate to, but we can Apparate from—are you accompanying me? It could be dangerous."

Potter merely smiled.

* * *

Harry couldn't decide if his past experience with what  _really_ guarded the classified banks at Gringotts was fortunate or unfortunate—something he should add to a resume or avoid entirely.

Nor was he prepared to test that fortune against the same dragon and a crazed Squib currently perched on the roof of the bank.

"This escalated rather quickly," Malfoy observed beside him and having let go of Harry's person instantaneously after landing. "How long since you've been on a broom?"

"Hogwarts."

"What does your lot say? Like riding a bus?"

"A bike."

Malfoy fished inside of his pockets yet again and enlarged a shrunken broomstick—allowing it to hover before climbing aboard. "Silly phrase, anyway. Get on. I've practiced in the last decade."

Harry didn't hesitate. He swung a leg over the familiar height and gripped tightly to the neck of the broom—his hands finding steady purchase and fingers locking as if he'd done this yesterday.

They were off and not too soon after the dragon took flight.

Whatever sort of broom this was, its speed was incredible—unlike anything Harry had experienced in school. And Malfoy, regardless of the spot he may have purchased on the Slytherin team, had a knack for the air.

"You planning on stunning a dragon, Malfoy?" Harry yelled over the wind buzzing past his ears. "Might kill a town."

"I'll have a plan in a moment. I just need time."

"What kind of time do you suppose we've got?"

"That depends," Malfoy began an ascended farther into the sky as the monster and Squib descended. "Are you asking about the time it will take for me to develop a strategy, or are you asking how long we have until we collide with the dragon?"

Harry would have laughed had they not been at a deadly height and in pursuit of a deadly, fire-breathing, winged beast. "Sidle up to it—I can make the jump."

"Potter, ignore the hypocrisy of this statement, but are you fucking mental?  _That_  is a dragon and you've managed to get back to the magical realm only months ago. The very last thing I need is the Chosen One dying for a case he had no business being a part of."

If a killing curse couldn't kill him,  _twice_ , surely a fall from this height was just as inconsequential.

_Tell that to the lump in my throat._

"Just get up against it, Malfoy. You have to trust me."

To Harry's pure shock, Malfoy didn't argue. He made a smooth transition towards the tail of the dragon and waited—face forward and set in determination.

The Healer worked to stand on the now seemingly measly scrap of wood, taking refuge in the sturdy wall of Malfoy's back and shoulders. The detective tensed as Harry sought for balance.  _A bit late for boundary issues, isn't it?_

Again, inappropriate time to laugh.

"Relax. I need you ready to move. You can't freeze up on me, all right?"

Malfoy didn't respond, and Harry figured this would be as close to consent as he'd achieve in this moment. Unthinking, and fighting beside himself not to close his eyes, Harry jumped.

And when his arms and legs wrapped around the scaly end of a still untamed monster, Harry exhaled the relief he'd been holding captive in his lungs.

Crawling towards the head would prove no simple feat, but he'd managed worse. What would be next to impossible was getting the dragon out of the sky safely—and not killing the Squib he still couldn't believe was bollocks with stunners but able to take out goblins and a dragon.

_There are probably stranger things._

* * *

Potter was an idiot. An astounding, out-of-his-mind,  _magnet_ for danger.

And Draco was impressed. No doubt his several tours left him thinking long after acting, but for the time, Draco was grateful for someone as unfazed by the prospect of death as he was.

 _Of course. He's the Boy Who_ Lived.  _Death isn't his master._

Without a wand, Potter had the man stunned and was muttering something unintelligible to Draco's ears that had the beast dropping remarkably fast in altitude. Draco followed suit and sought for the location Potter meant to land on. If his calculations were correct, they would just miss a rather densely populated town right outside of London.

And if either man made any error, Draco would be paying another reluctant visit to the Minister of Magic about Obliviating a people and damage control.

_Don't muck this up, Potter._

He wouldn't. In fact, he'd land even farther than Draco anticipated—guaranteeing the safety of a town and Draco's career. And Draco would be met with a sudden urge to gape in wonder as his feet touched the grassy ground beneath him.

Potter hopped off the dragon's skull and gave a gentle pat to the corner of its eye before it closed. The monster snorted a cloud of smoke and nodded off, exhausted from the day's events.

"You're an amateur dragon tamer?" Draco asked, forbidding himself to feel anymore surprise.

"With a few burns to prove it. Can't say I've ever had a need to practice, so I'm afraid most of that was luck."

"Story of your life, I'm sure. You know, that luck will waver eventually."

Potter shrugged and sat cross-legged in the grass, leaning backwards and glancing upwards at an approaching night sky. "You're probably right."

"That dragon recognized you."

The Healer grunted something akin to an affirmation. And Draco was more than a bit curious. But he and Potter weren't  _friends_. He could pry into the life of an average person, but the life of the Chosen One? Untouchable ground.

"What should we do with the Squib?"

"How strong was your stunner?"

He leaned again, this time at full body length with his hands underneath his head—the picture of ease. "He may be out for a day, two at most."

Draco allowed the briefest of smiles as he wasn't being watched anyway. Either Potter didn't understand the extent of his power or thought nothing of it. That sort of strength wasn't heard of, and to do so without the use of a wand was spectacular.

"I'll alert the Auror department."

Unnecessary as a rather loud  _crack_ sounded, followed by several others and the unmistakable barking of Head Auror, Blaise Zabini.

"Draco Lucius Malfoy! What in Salazar's name are you doing flying after a dragon like this is the fucking Triwizard Tournament? We've been over this, you overdramatic sod! You call me, I send a team, and we both avoid Azkaban."

"If I would have called you, Zabini, your team would have lost a fortune, a dragon, and a moderately gifted Squib. Instead you have six bodies to clean up and a stunned Squib thanks to Potter, here."

Blaise's face scrunched in confused aggravation before glaring at the Boy Who Lived. "Potter? What the piss are you doing around him? And how the bloody hell did you stun this bastard? Aren't you a Healer?"

Potter's answering shrug would have been annoyingly repetitive had it been in Draco's direction. At the moment, it was amusing, and Draco's lips pursed to contain a chuckle.

"I had bad days," he answered simply.

"Is that all of a report you need, Zabini? Potter has a bed time I'm responsible for."

The Healer's eyes narrowed in his direction. Draco's head tipped to the side, hands splayed in surrender to call his own bluff. He was teasing, and Potter's face softened at the realization.

Blaise didn't respond, just pinched the bridge of his nose and paced to his team—muttering curses the entire way.

"Are you hungry, Potter?"

"Starved."

* * *

Harry wasn't aware of normal Auror protocol after a case, but he assumed they all didn't end in a dimly lit Italian restaurant with candles and rose centerpiece included.

They were seated near a window and promised it was the most romantic placement in the establishment.

He would have rather been bothered for an autograph.

Malfoy didn't order anything but a glass of wine. After a careful amount of incessant nagging, he shared in Harry's meal—probably instigating the overbearing waitress and encouraging the idea of a date no matter his protests otherwise.

"We're not together!" he finally snapped. Malfoy didn't notice, or if he had, he didn't seem to mind the outburst or insinuation. "Doesn't that irk you?"

"Doesn't what irk me?"

"They think we're a couple."

"They could think worse things."

And he was right. There could always be worse rumors spread about Harry Potter, the Boy Who Refused to Die.

"Have you ever brought a date here? Potential girlfriend?"

Malfoy continued to look out the window, blindly tearing at Harry's bread and chewing miniscule pieces. "Not exactly my area, Potter."

 _Oh._ "Potential boyfriend?"

"Excuse me?"

"W-well, it would be fine if you—I'm just saying it wouldn't be a problem if you, you know…" Malfoy's brow raised, and if Harry didn't know better, he would think Malfoy was experiencing genuine confusion. "Whatever you do is fine."

"Thank-you for your graces, Potter. I'll assure you that neither gender is my area, though."

"You're unattached then?" Malfoy nodded. "That's—that's good. Like me."

"Where'd you learn to dragon tame?"

Harry, after joining the armed forces, trained in Romania for his Healer's license during his leaves of absence. Running into Charlie had been a coincidence Harry hadn't accounted for, but training dragons was dangerous, even for someone as experienced as his best mate's older brother. He'd learned to treat burns on Charlie's skin, and soon learned quite a bit more than the average wizard about how to tame a dragon.

Malfoy listened intently to Harry's ramblings, on the edge of his seat from beginning to end. It could have been disbelief, but Harry seriously doubted there was much Malfoy couldn't fathom. Perhaps he was simply impressed that someone without a genius I.Q. could prattle on through life without managing to drown in his own saliva.

"And when my arm was nearly shot from its socket, I stopped. I did what I could with it once I noticed—it's amazing what the body ignores when in shock. They released me with an honorable discharge and I moved in with Ron and Hermione."

"What does it feel like?"

"Pardon?"

"To be shot," Malfoy clarified. "How did it feel? And how long did the shock last? I don't imagine pain makes up for lost time, though I'm sure it was something of a shock to see the wound itself."

Harry considered this. He tried not to think about his arm very often as it usually stiffened with thought. Malfoy already noticed this— _the prat noticed everything_ —so there wasn't anything to hide in adjusting his arm's positioning.

"It did some nerve damage, and bits of bullet were lodged in some opportune locations—keeping me from bleeding out while I ignored the wound. The bone was the worst of the pain when I came to. I've broken and lost bones several times, but this was like having a bone implode on its self. It was excruciating. And by the time I'd reached camp with as many soldiers as I could get moving, not even magic could repair it all. I'm lucky I got to keep it."

Malfoy processed his words, but there was more. The detective clearly had a thought he was uncharacteristically withholding, but Harry didn't feel like stirring the pot. He hadn't been longing for any sort of companionship from the blond, but it wasn't unwelcome. He'd rather have a somewhat friendly relationship with his flatmate than no relationship at all.

And mucking that up after nearly two months of non-companionable silence seemed especially counterproductive.

"Could I see it? Your arm, I mean. I don't know much about Muggle weaponry, and it would make an excellent study for me."

"Well, when you put it that way—"

"I wasn't trying to offend, I—"

Harry raised a hand and shook his head, smiling. "I'm only teasing. You can study it if you'd like. If I get something out of it, that is."

Malfoy was suspicious, but Harry figured he was paid to be so. "What would you want?"

"Tell me why you're living in a flat in the middle of Muggle London, working for who I assumed was your best mate in school. What happened with your father?"

"Do I have to tell the story in public, or is the flat an option?" And with that, Malfoy drained the remaining contents of his glass.

* * *

Honesty was a strange thing. It's said an honest man need never worry about being caught in a lie, but what good was a man without his mystery? To be an open book for the world was to openly welcome vulnerability and Draco hadn't the luxury.

He immediately made for the liquor cabinet that consisted of one aged bottle of firewhiskey. It was a gift from Astoria's aunt after moving in. Draco wasn't much for drinking, but this may prove a golden opportunity.

"Would you care for a glass, Potter?"

"I don't get pissed easily, Malfoy. And I'd hate for you to waste anything strong on getting out of our deal."

Draco poured two glasses. He could always have both if Potter refused.

The detective tossed his coat and scarf on the chair they previously rested on and found a reasonably comfortable position on the couch across from Potter's chair. His drink would empty in one go.

Wincing, Draco maneuvered himself again—sitting rigid and upright with both knees pressed close together. The glass in his hand was still quite cool and served as no distraction to Draco's overactive mind.

"They wanted me to go to therapy after the war," Potter mentioned off-hand. "I never went, but I imagine our roles would be reversed. Me on the couch and the shrink in the chair."

"This isn't therapy, Potter."

"I'm not a mental health Healer. I can't argue with you."

And Draco couldn't argue with that logic. The simplest statements were usually the worst to compromise. Their simplicity was central to their genius.

"Can't argue with me on this point." The detective was being facetious, of course. Potter and he could argue about near anything. It was just no longer worth the effort. Draco inhaled slowly and forced his frame to relax, if only a fraction from the stiffness of a board. "After the battle, mother and I moved to France. Father was sentenced to Azkaban. Zabini and I signed up for Auror training and I convinced mother that it was to get us back into the graces of the Wizarding World. I found she eventually couldn't care what happened to our name as she was slowly losing her mind to the point of insanity. I believe she actually has a room near the Longbottom couple."

"I've never seen her at the hospital and I visit Neville's parents on a biweekly basis."

Draco's grin was solemn, but no doubt Potter couldn't discern the difference. "Amazing what you can manage to hide when you know the right people. I didn't want negative press written about my mother, and should she ever return to normal, she would search for it. I know her all too well. So, she's under a false name established and protected by Zabini and his motley crew of misfits. The man really does know his job and has a knack for the division, but he's of a one-track mind. That's what made us a team during training. He handled the muscle, I handled the puzzles. And when mother made a turn for the worse, I dove deeper into the detective side of the Auror group, something brand new. It was for the best, though. Zabini was being promoted to Head Auror."

"Which is why you can get away with murder if you had a mind to."

"Precisely. And Zabini and I living together made the job a bit easier for a while, until we were going at each other's throats every other minute and he began to see Astoria."

Potter gawked like a fish out of water. Draco must have left out an important detail. These events weren't relevant to his current situation, so he had a tendency to delete pieces to generate room for new information.

"We'd agreed after school that this arranged marriage wasn't for us. I wanted nothing to do with children, nor did I want to settle anywhere that required my constant presence. Sex wasn't and isn't a priority to me. And I'm quite married to my work. We broke it off and father was furious. Our name in the pureblood society would forever be tainted due to his insufferable  _freak_ of a son."

He'd gone into his Lucius impression without any conscious effort. It had been years since he was forced to go back to this place. Memories began to filter through their deleted space—an unperceivable phenomenon. How could nothing, perhaps dark matter was more appropriate, become physical, tangible matter once again?

And it  _must_ be tangible, as the feelings were rising to his throat, threatening to cut off his air supply. He needed to breathe, but his body was overcome with the past, and Draco's skin began to itch beneath his clothing. He was sweating and Potter was catching on. His concern was damn near next to scented in its potency. And Draco was choking on that concern—and choking on memory.

"Malfoy, elbows above your ears! You drank too fast, elbows above your ears!"

_Potter? Potter is trying to move my arms, why would he do that? Why is he so close to me? My chest—there's something on my chest, in my chest._

"Potter, I can't breathe!"

"Cough, dammit! You just have to cough!"

So he did. Potter was a doctor, after all. He knew all about breathing.

And when the fit Draco was certain resembled a hysterical seizure ended, his mind cleared again—every scrap of information exactly where it should be. Everything in order and accounted for.

"You want to tell me what happened, Malfoy?"

 _Clear. Ordered. Managed._ "I think I should sleep."

"When did you last sleep?"

"Maybe a week or so ago."

"Malfoy," Potter said quietly, disbelieving. "What  _are you_?"

Draco's breath was far less controlled than he previously planned, shaking and stuttering without his permission.

"A freak, Potter. That's what they call me. And the truth is nothing more than a glorified majority belief, so it must be fact."

The Healer's concern morphed to pity and revised that mistake, making up for it in understanding. "I was always told that when you've eliminated all possibilities, what remains—no matter how improbable—is the answer. That's what truth is, Malfoy. It's relative,  _always_ relative. Until you've nothing left but  _freak_ , you're anything but."

Draco nodded, eyes searching Potter's for the shoe that should drop at any second.

"Does that make sense?"

Finding no sight of a shoe, foot, or however the Muggle saying goes, Draco did indeed understand.

It made perfect sense.


	4. Chapter 4

Some events can't be experienced without bonding those unfortunate enough to encounter such an incident together.

Combating a dragon is one of those events.

Without much conscious effort, Harry began to accompany Malfoy on the occasional case. Occasional turned to  _most_ , and  _most_  to  _every_.

And after four months of regular work, the flatmates were considered a team—a consulting Auror detective, and his Healer doctor.

Harry didn't mind appearing as the sidekick for a change, in fact, he relished the shared responsibility and knew as well as Malfoy that he was an assistant.

Detective work was for another breed.

He missed the thrill of the chase, loathe it as he may. And there was always the disturbing rush felt from their arrival to a new scene. Their partnership was unexpected and usually scoffed at.

Harry did so love to cause a fuss.

Though, the chase was far more exhausting than he imagined it could be on top of clinic duty and overtime. He'd taken quite a bit on and only really felt the effects after Malfoy's work had slowed to a dull roar. Five days passed of caselessness monotony and a night off finally presented itself away from the diseased occupants of Saint Mungo's.

And Harry James Potter was booked for a blind date.

"Potter," Malfoy startled the dead silence that had settled between them as Harry finished staring holes into his own reflection. "I've been shut up for days. We're going out."

"I've got a date, remember?"

The detective choked on what Harry assumed was the vile coffee he preferred over tea and Harry just stifled a laugh.

"Excuse me?"

"You were there when Hermione arranged it. I believe you even went so far as to say she was a lovely woman."

Malfoy's sudden intake of breath was almost comical. "I did no such thing! I don't even recall this  _date_ business. What in Salazar's name could you possibly find attractive about dressing up to impress some witch who probably couldn't deduce the difference between Alihotsy poisoning and true hysteria?"

Harry rolled his eyes fiddled with the cuffs of his button-up. He didn't dress himself "up" often, but he liked to think the few purchases he made over the years were tasteful enough.

_Bloody uncomfortable enough._

"That's not what a date is about, Malfoy."

"I don't understand the point, then."

 _Of course not._ "Look, it might be a nice change of pace to simply enjoy a meal and a pint without a dead body present, or the chance I may become a dead body looming overhead."

"How can you be so positive I wasn't suggesting something similar? Not all of my outings end in someone's incarceration. I would even assume that an entire third of my social life does not include a limp body."

Harry stared knowingly, his head tilted forward and to the left as an eyebrow rose. "Make sure you eat something while I'm away, all right?"

"Careful. Someone might think you care."

* * *

Potter left moments before Draco's phone buzzed. There had been an ongoing case involving the murders of several pardoned Death Eaters and their families.

This message alerted Draco of a break, and his attention was urgently necessary. He spun quickly, Potter's name at the tip of his tongue and remembered he was alone in the flat.

His fingers skated over the appropriate keys of his phone and sent both a response to Zabini and his location to Potter.

_Case opened at the Shrieking Shack. Come at once if convenient. If inconvenient, come all the same. –DM_

Surely solving a mystery was more prudent than thrusting a tongue into some stranger's mouth. Potter must have recognized this.

And with every ounce of confidence in that notion, Draco raced from the apartment to the promise of a breakthrough.

* * *

Dating was never something Harry excelled in. At his best, he was mediocre. At his worse, he was lethal and damn near offensive.

Living most of his life in an I-am-most-likely-not-going-to-make-it-to-adulthood mentality didn't precisely showcase the prospect of  _courting_ in an important manner, but a very pregnant Hermione was not one to argue with.

And because of that, Harry was seated across from a witch who had recently moved to London from the States and hoped to teach at one of the Wizarding schools. She was pretty enough. Her name was Eliza. Nothing remarkable and entirely safe.

If he were a rude man, he would call her  _dull_. But Harry was polite, or he at the very least attempted to be.

_That should count for something._

He'd run out of small talk and questions ten minutes ago and was currently ignoring the consistent vibration in his pocket. It began not long after he'd met Eliza and served as a constant reminder of his excruciatingly short attention span.

Of course, it didn't have to be Malfoy on the other end. It could very well be Ron or Hermione or Zabini warning him to keep his nose out of Auror business…

Someone could be dying at Mungo's.

The possibilities were endless.

"Harry?"

 _Oh, shite. She was talking._ "Beg your pardon?"

"Is everything all right?"

"Oh, yes. Quite fine. Thank-you. I'm just a bit out of sorts from work and I'm  _just_  getting the hang of this detective business—"

"Detective business?" Eliza giggled and sipped at the wine she  _insisted_ Harry treat himself to. The stuff tasted of rancid grapes and he declined the second glass. "You're a detective? Like that Doyle story?"

"Not really, no. I'm the help—or the detective's roommate. Mostly medical know-how."

"You live with a detective?"

 _I live with a lunatic._ "Yeah—bit of a long story. He's on the Auror team and I was roped in a few months back after this spell with the dragon at Gringott's."

"That was  _you_?"

"And Draco Malfoy." He wouldn't take all of the credit for the show—considering his part was luck. "I guess we're a team for lack of a better word."

"Must be nice having a friend you enjoy working and living with."

"I wouldn't say we're  _friends_. Partners, maybe. Colleagues could fit."

"You don't slay a dragon for anything less than a friend, Harry."

There hadn't been any  _slaying_ involved, but this wouldn't be the first time Harry had been compared to a knight. And if he played carefully, an innuendo wouldn't be made about his  _sword_.

Eliza allowed the last few bites of her meal to turn cold, something Harry found annoying and wasteful. At least if Malfoy decided to eat, he took what was offered and left no evidence in its wake, or he picked at Harry's plate until Harry was satisfied he wouldn't faint unnecessarily.

"So, tell me what it's really like to live with a story book character."

And once it was settled that the date couldn't end until after Harry supplied this insistent woman with her answers, the Healer told a story.

It was the most he'd had to say all evening. He laughed to the point of tears and found himself gripping the edge of their shared table in anger. His pulse raced and slowed all at once.

There was a  _liveliness_ he hadn't shown Eliza since they'd first managed an awkward  _hello._ And he couldn't stop the tale from spilling and tumbling into a messy pile of words and strangled noises he hadn't heard himself make in  _years_.

Difficult not to notice something so obvious. An exercise in futility.

"Probably best I head off," Eliza said and stood, smoothing the wrinkles at the base of her dress. "That Draco's a lucky man to have someone as dedicated as you around."

"Eliza, we work together, it's not—"

"You don't owe me an explanation. You've been anxious all night, and the last half hour you spent talking about your roommate was the happiest I've seen you. I don't know if it's the work, or Draco, but you've got a passion for something. And it certainly isn't at this dinner table."

She crossed over to Harry's side and placed a kiss to his cheek, wished him good-night, and exited the restaurant Hermione suggested.

And when the sickening clot in his throat dissipated, Harry fished for the phone in his pocket to find one message from the very same detective who had sabotaged his date without so much as existing in the same room.

_Case opened at the Shrieking Shack. Come at once if convenient. If inconvenient, come all the same. –DM_

Harry snarled, left enough money to pay for this dinner and the next, and was off in the same huff his first case began with.

* * *

Draco remembered entering the shack and a sharp blow to his right temple.

Then darkness.

His hands were bound behind his back and his ankles were in a similar predicament. His vision blurred and blackened, but soon leveled out. Painted on the wall before him was a delicately written text that read,  _A gift for you, Detective._ And beneath the note was what appeared to be a leather bound book. The note itself was in red ink that Draco quickly realized was blood.

After a moment of clarity and comprehension of his state as a serious loss of blood and restricted flow, Draco came to the conclusion that the message was written using his own blood and ironically thanked his captor for managing a decent tourniquet.

He wasn't entirely sure of his wound's status, but his conscious was far too fuzzy for comfort. If he wasn't attended to soon, he was likely to bleed out.

And wouldn't that be a way to go?

Unable to locate his wand, Draco panicked as much as any bound sociopathic man with severe blood loss could panic.

"Malfoy, you don't text me on a date when you bloody well know I haven't had a normal night in over a decade!"

 _Potter?_  Draco wanted desperately to scream out, but he understood immediately that he was also gagged.

"Where the piss are you, you git? I don't care if you're in your mind castle or whatever it is you call that infuriating— _Malfoy_!"

Potter was impressively fast in motion and Draco thanked the Force for that bit of luck. Perhaps he should send them a card or fruit basket when he came to.

"Malfoy, what happened? It's fine now. I'll get you home and patched up, but you have to calm down so I can get us out of here. I'm not going to chance splinching one of us, and your arm is already a fucking mess."

"Is that," Draco breathed, "the medical term?"

The Healer laughed and sighed simultaneously. "Yeah, that's the medical term."

* * *

During training to become a Healer of the magical realm, Harry developed an affinity for potions—something that probably had Severus Snape rolling in his grave.

He'd created a sleep draught fit to cater to the specific needs of any one person—adjusting to height, weight, and necessary rest time without the risk of over-rest.

It was genius, and should he patent the formula, he was sure to make a mint.

But Harry wasn't interested in any more fame or fortune, so he kept the mixture to himself and brewed when necessary. Tonight was one of those times and Malfoy was in need.

The potion was simple, fortunately so. He figure Malfoy would sleep on his own for an hour to two hours due to blood loss, and subtracting the time between arriving home and stitching his arm back together, Harry had less than an hour to prepare.

And assuming Malfoy would be disoriented enough to trust consuming the concoction Harry would inevitably drown in tea was another shot in the dark entirely.

Harry heard the shuffling and grunted curses just as his tea fizzled out. The substance was next to undetectable—tested more than once on Hermione and that was more than enough proof for Harry.

"Potter?" Malfoy garbled almost unintelligibly—running a shaking hand over his head and raking equally trembling fingers through normally pristine locks. "My everything hurts."

Harry wouldn't giggle now. Judging by Malfoy's sway, he'd have plenty of time to laugh later.

"Drink this, all right? You'll feel much better afterwards."

"What is it?" the detective asked after taking the dangerously warm mug and sniffing the liquid inside. "Is this that vile tea always on your breath?"

"This  _vile_ tea is going to help your lucky arse recover from only a few pints of blood loss. You should be dead, Malfoy. Drink up."

Malfoy smirked, his lethargy marring the patented Malfoy skill and warping it into a lazy grin. "Cheers."

His scrunched nose was gratefully brought on by distaste for tea and not from the potion Harry hoped to hide. He hated to think he couldn't outsmart Malfoy in the medical field—his chosen profession.

Within moments of draining the glass, Malfoy's knees buckled and he braced his hand against the nearest wall.

"Potter?" he mumbled, voice far away and heavy with oncoming sleep. "I feel funny."

"You're just tired," Harry assured and took the man's injured appendage to lead him back to his bed. "You're going to sleep for a while. And I'm going to be right outside on the couch should you need me."

"Why would I need you?" Malfoy grumbled and snuggled defiantly into his pillows. Harry rolled his eyes and dimmed the lights to his flatmate's room. "Thank-you for protecting my freedom, captain."

_Why would you need me, indeed._


	5. Chapter 5

Draco slept when his body was physically incapable of withstanding the minimalist efforts of active life.

However, he couldn't recall a time that's exceeded a handful of hours separating his longer bouts of consciousness. The detective rolled to his side—his muscles screaming in protest as they attempted to wake—and retrieved the cellular device beside him. It was late into the afternoon.

Two days following the incident at the Shrieking Shack.

_Potter._

His legs wobbled beneath a weight they needed readjusting to. His head spun at this unwelcomed angle and he immediately regretted the decision to move at all.

But Potter required a good tongue lashing for meddling with his sleep cycle, and Draco assumed his equilibrium would return shortly.

The doctor stood and leaned against the kitchen counter—teacup in one hand, a copy of the Prophet in his other. His brow was furrowed in what looked to be an intense amount of concentration—perhaps something interesting had happened in the last two days Draco had fallen off the face of the planet.

"You made me sleep for two days," Draco accused flatly.

Potter's paper never wavered. "Technically, you slept for a day and a half—no need to be overdramatic."

"What did you use on me? I can't recognize it, but it's really the only theory that makes any sort of sense."

"You can't recognize it because it's not on the market."

"Illegal substances, Potter? Surely you jest."

Potter chuckled and folded his paper, taking another sip of tea and placing his mug beside the Prophet. "I can assure you everything I used to make the draught was legally purchased."

"So you're a potions master?"

"I dabbled after Hogwarts. Putting soldiers to sleep was a tad less difficult after I'd come up with it. Simple brew compared to whatever Snape had us making. And I've found quite a few more instances to use this rather than a mist that kills maggots."

Draco wanted to be livid, but he was impressed—and this happened too rarely to dismiss.

"Your date went awry," Draco decided to discuss instead.

"Your hair is a nest."

"You're one to talk," Draco grumbled and self-consciously flattened the hair he'd forgotten he owned. It usually fell perfectly—there was no reason to consider otherwise. "At least I have two days of sleeping to excuse me."

"A day and a half."

The detective wouldn't dignify Potter's repetition with a verbal response. He would, however, Accio the man's tea and spit in the most undignified manner—a shit-eating grin plastered to his lips.

"I wasn't finished with that," Potter said with a growing smile.

"I couldn't have made it taste any worse," Draco noted and tapped his fingers along the edge of their dinner table before sinking into his rarely used chair. "Now, about that failed date."

Potter shrugged. "No chemistry." Draco waited. There was more, and Potter knew by now that Draco could deduce for days or wring it out of him. Neither was pleasant. "And apparently I wasn't the liveliest companion until you came up in conversation."

"Why would I come up in conversation?"

"We live together," the doctor explained. "And we're not exactly private news."

Draco snorted and stretched with an over-exaggerated yawn. "People should mind their own business."

"You don't."

"I'm paid to meddle, Potter. There's a difference. It's just as dangerous as someone pretending to be a doctor if they're unqualified."

Potter paced around the countertop, new tea in hand, and sat across from Draco. "I found you bound and gagged at the very edge of death not two days ago because of your meddling. How's your head, by the way?"

"Notice you said  _very edge of death._ Someone outside of this field would have been dead. And my head is quite all right, thank-you." Though it wasn't, he'd simply kept the pain in the process of a deletion until reminded.

Potter laughed again and Malfoy couldn't pinpoint where precisely the animosity ended. Well, he  _could_. He simply found the idea tedious and unnecessary.

His flatmate would likely be offended by the timeline, anyway. And what good was a disgruntled doctor?

_No good at all if I have another near death and he's in a fit._

"I started looking at that book under all that blood you wouldn't have died from losing because you're so trained in your field—it's blank, y'know?"

"I wasn't aware, no. But was that prelude necessary?"

The doctor rolled his eyes and removed his glasses—finally paying mind to a smudge Draco had been itching to say something about for next to a week. Why he kept the offensive lenses was well beyond Draco's deduction skills.

It certainly wasn't practical for a doctor to wear something he could potentially lose to the inside of another person's body.

"Not everything is necessary, Malfoy. You being a prick eighty percent of the time is probably unnecessary, and yet, here we are."

Those statistics were constructed entirely of fallacy—there wasn't a chance in all of Muggle London that Potter conducted any sound research on the matter. Draco may have been a prick at an over-estimated sixty-five percent of the time at most.

_Just because I'm not a saint…_

"I was teasing. A little benign tiff between friends."

"I don't have  _friends_ , Potter," he hissed with an excessive emphasis on the  _s_.

And just like that, the mood of the room shifted. Potter tensed and frowned—eyeing his mug with far more malice than Draco deemed acceptable between a man and his tea. He nodded once and distanced himself from the table, casted a wandless  _Accio_ to collect his coat and phone, and found the front door.

Draco recounted his words, and as the vibrations of the door's frame finished, his mistake materialized from the furthest recesses of his mind.

Despite the itching in his chest to focus solely on this momentous occasion, Draco couldn't help but to notice the very edge of a plate, the smallest sliver of imitated china, resting near the area Potter once occupied.

The doctor had made him breakfast. It was cooling.

And Draco really was a right prick.

* * *

His shift at the clinic would begin in less than an hour, but he couldn't very well assist the ill in such a foul mood.

And Hermione was less prone to homicide when company was present—even Harry's.

"Why you'd let him get to you is beyond me, mate. He's not social. He never has been. If it makes you feel any better, you're probably the only person who's stomached him since Zabini." Ron thought a moment before adding, "And probably the only person  _he's_  stomached since Zabini."

"I don't want some medal, Ron. I just think it's a bit insulting."

"You know what's really insulting? Having the mother of your future child complain to your own mother about your incompetence as a father before the bastard's even born. I haven't even had the opportunity to bullocks up the kid's life yet! And George isn't permitted to see him until he's old enough to run away."

"You found out the sex?"

Ron barked a startling laugh. "Are you kidding? I'm sleeping in your old room until he  _or she_ is born. She doesn't bloody trust me not to run tests on her in her sleep."

Harry stifled his own snicker and opted not to lecture Ron on the side effects of pregnancy—especially a pregnancy due any day now.

Living with a sociopath was probably preferable to a psychopath.

And wasn't that the very definition of a sociopath—someone outside the normal realm of social expectations? Someone who could survive well without social exposure? Someone without much of a conscience to consider another's feelings or emotions before his own?

Harry was a medical professional, for Merlin's sake. This was a case of subjective, supposed to be objective, science at work. And Harry could do better.

Malfoy wouldn't disrupt his life again, and if he recalled appropriately, he'd turned down that hand a lifetime ago.

* * *

The Healer's misplaced and misfiled paperwork finally caught up with him and he hadn't the audacity to use the last of his  _savior_ cards to free him of this monotony.

So he sat in the dusty hallway of an unused floor—thirteen to be exact as the magical were the most superstitious—with folders scattered about in some semblance of order only Harry could comprehend clearly.

Early into the morning, as his shift was steadily approaching its hump, a call sounded throughout the hospital alerting Harry of an urgent visitor in wait at the front entrance. He assumed it was Ron or Hermione overreacting to something irrational, but he hurried nonetheless—better to be safe than sorry.

He was incorrect, however, with both his company and reasoning. Draco Malfoy stood hunched and amusedly preoccupied with inexistent dirt beneath his fingernails. Still, though, it was aggravating to have the unnecessary distraction from  _his_ work.

"What's the emergency, Malfoy?" Harry snapped readily between closed teeth and a set jaw.

"Do you have a break?" His tone was alien and surreal in its softness—unrecognizable.

He wouldn't be fazed by the attempt. "Not really, no. Can you make this quick? I've got weeks of files to sort."

"Potter, I don't have friends," Malfoy muttered in a breath, his gaze finding his feet in the perfect impression of bashfulness.

"We've been over this. I know you haven't got any friends. I was actually present for the conversation."

_Really? Of all the nerve—_

"I've got one friend, Potter. I've got you and it's embarrassing to admit it, but it's the truth and I know you appreciate that shite." The Auror detective undid the buttons of his coat and plucked a folded slip of parchment from his inner pockets. Without explanation, Malfoy found an unused quill abandoned on the desk they'd taken to leaning against and signed the very bottom of what appeared to be a legal document upon closer examination. Harry was quite certain of the fact thanks to the last few hours of desk work.

"What is this?" Harry asked after being handed the paper, but no proper chance of reading the fine details.

Malfoy stepped within a foot of Harry's personal space and dropped to a volume of absolute privacy. "It's a release form for my mother. I had Blaise add you to her list of Healers, if you'll take her on. I  _trust_ you, Potter."

And then he was gone, nodding to the front desk's secretary in probable thanks for her assistance in locating the healer, and coat billowing behind him in the most appropriate Malfoy fashion he could imagine.

Filing on floor thirteen was steady torture after such an encounter.

Fortunately, the new parchment Harry obtained was more than enough motivation for efficiency. Curiosity would be the very death of him.

Finishing an hour before his shift was set to close, the doctor made for the floor scrawled next to Narcissa's patient identification number and spell-work to reveal and unlock her room. She was kept under intense security, just as Malfoy mentioned she would be.

It did well to have friends in high places.

Even with the right, permission, and correct documentation to advance through the doorway, Harry felt an insistent prying in his stomach, twisting his insides and building a blockage in his throat. This was a private matter—something outside of Harry's business and expertise as he was no mental health healer.

But he pressed on because he  _needed_ to know what existed beyond the boundary Malfoy was attempting to break.

So in he went. There was no other choice and no backing out.

And as much as he would have liked to feel otherwise, he was uncharacteristically surprised. Propped against pillows and snoring lazily in the still early morning was Narcissa Malfoy—hair still a violent blonde with streaks of grey and skin translucent. Her features were pointed, far sharper in an older phase of her life, but less worn somehow—as if the time away from the outside world preserved her.

Harry wouldn't disturb her rest.

* * *

Draco had been fiddling with the notebook since Potter left that afternoon. It was a communication device. The pages were empty in order to provide space for excessive conversation—he'd remembered reading about something similar when Voldemort's case was publicized. That diary had been a host for a bit of Voldemort's soul, and Draco wondered if the practice of establishing horcruxes was still at large.

If Potter returned to the flat immediately following his shift, he would arrive at any moment.

And like clockwork, the Healer did indeed cross the threshold into their shared quarters.

Draco darted forward from his lounged wait and paced quickly on the tips of his bare toes across the floor, stopping all too abruptly when he realized the precise proximity between himself and Potter.

"Afternoon, Potter. I've made you a late breakfast if you're feeling famished." He hadn't meant for the words to tumble out in one go, but there was no stopping the excessive chatter. "Pancakes, bacon, and eggs."

Potter simply stared at him for an immeasurable amount of time—not once blinking or seeming to breathe.

"Did you make it?" he finally asked, with the smallest smile cuing his teasing.

"I haven't poisoned it, if that's what you're wondering." The former Gryffindor didn't laugh or smile, reminding Draco he had yet to be entirely forgiven, but Potter did find a seat at the table only to stand again and locate the refrigerator. "I wasn't sure of the milk you took, so I purchased several brands and fat contents."

This, however, did earn him a chuckle.

"Thank-you," Potter said simply and sat again, a glass of one percent in his hand.

The Auror detective shifted a chair and joined Potter less than a meter away. "I'm sorry about—"

"It's fine, Malfoy."

"No. It isn't," Draco conceded. "I'm not terribly good with sentiment, and if you'd give me the opportunity, I'd very much like to try."

"Try what?" Potter asked, gulping as Draco breached his personal space.

"Sentiment, Po— _Harry_. Do keep up." Draco raised a cautious hand and placed it uncomfortably atop Potter's shoulder, feeling it stiffen immediately. "This is where you were hurt. You told me I could see it."

"I did." Just as simply, just as mechanical.

"Might I look now?"

Through a full mouth, Harry grunted. "This very minute?"

"You use your other arm to eat, so it wouldn't affect your meal. And it should make this a bit less awkward considering you'd have your mouth full for most of the study."

Logical. Always so logical.

Harry didn't respond verbally but set his fork beside his plate and removed his relatively clean shirt scrubs. He resumed eating and kept his eyes cast forward.

"You'll tell me if it hurts," Draco said before brushing the ghost of a touch over Harry's past wound.

Harry shook his head. "It won't. Scar tissue's tough, Malfoy." Draco knew they were returning to the same night of their previous life. But Harry wouldn't apologize and the detective wouldn't accept the pity. They were boys, after all. "You already know that."

"Of course." It wasn't bitter—no malice at the edges. It was a mutual understanding.

They'd both had scars.

This skin was different than his own, however. The scar was made to heal without the use of magic and without help of magic to have made it possible in the first place. It was… thicker, somehow.

_Is this how all non-magical wounds heal?_

In theory, it made absolute sense. The human body needed resiliency. If it was destroyed, it was survival of the fittest—it needed to evolve into something tougher and better able to survive.

_Why, then, is it so weak to begin with?_

People were such ridiculous things. Remarkable survivors, though. Draco wouldn't take that away from them—they'd earned it.

"I wonder which is worse," Harry mumbled between bites.

Draco followed the direction of conversation easily. "Pain is relative."

"S'pose you're right. Yours looked worse, though."

"Relative."

"Obviously." They laughed. It was a short-lived, reciprocated understanding of matters that were anything but relative. Draco's scars may have appeared to allude to a more serious injury, but perhaps it didn't. A slashed chest versus a nearly severed arm…

What sort of competition was that? Who won?

_What did it matter?_

"Finding anything?" the doctor asked, probably made uncomfortable due to his role in this reversed study.

Draco wouldn't end the learning experience early. He was indeed learning a good bit.

For instance, if prodded at the very edge of his rounded scar, Harry would flinch ever so fluidly—as if his conscious and subconscious fell one after the other. He didn't hurt, but he expected to hurt, so his reflexes reacted before his sense could tell him otherwise.

It was a tragic thing—a very human thing. And Harry would grit his teeth afterwards, displeased with his inability to control a reflex.

Though, whether that absence of control was shameful entirely or in Draco's presence, Draco hadn't the will to ask.

In either case, the Auror detective was finding himself rather taken with his stubbornness. He  _admired_ Harry's unwillingness to break and strength to pull himself together should he do so.

It was an attractive quality in anyone—modest, personal strength.

_But it suits Harry._

Draco's stomach began to churn. He was developing a preference, or recognizing the development since it had been brewing for some time.

Harry was his only friend—the only man he knew without any uncertainty he could trust.

"Did you visit my mother?" Harry nodded, having finished eating for quite some time. "H-how was she?"

"Sleeping."

"I trust you," Draco repeated.

"I know."

And so did the detective. "You're my friend."

"I know."

"And I'm sorry."

Harry inhaled slowly through his nose and met Draco's still penetrating, searching eyes. "I know."

"I'm not used to having to care for someone," he confessed. "It's a dangerous disadvantage in this line of work. One I thought I'd had the good fortune of avoiding."

"You understand that's almost offensive."

The statement was serious, but Harry's lips held a smirk. "You know what I mean."

"D'you mind if I put a shirt on?"

 _That would be appropriate…_ "Yes, of course."

Draco moved to allow Harry room and the doctor walked towards the stairs.

"Did you figure out that book?" he called over his shoulder—voice disappearing between the separate floors.

"It's a communication device," Draco explained and collected himself—reigning in his normally cold demeanor. "It's requested my presence this evening, but considering my two day coma—"

"A day and a half," Harry corrected again, returning after dawning a clean t-shirt and tattered jeans. Did friends purchase clothing for each other? If so, Draco would do his best to make the doctor moderately respectable to the public. "And I could come along this time. One of us is bound to notice if the other's just been knocked unconscious."

"You know it'll likely be dangerous."

Harry shrugged. "And here I am."

"Here you are."

* * *

The Auror detective hadn't expected a companion for the possible lead. But Harry was an exception in some cases—most cases.

The book riddled Draco with  _Behind heavy hands, a present waits. If I strike past midnight, you're late._

Big Ben's tower at midnight.

And Harry would accompany him. Dangerous or not.

"So, what's the plan?"

"Plans tend to fail—they're a distraction."

At a minute before midnight, Draco spelled the lock free and placed a careful hand over the door's knob. "You're ready?"

"I am."

_Three._

_Two._

_One._

The pair entered, Draco with wand pointed outwards, Harry crouched and prepared. It's as if he meant to pounce—as if he'd forgotten he didn't even need a wand to perform magic.

It was… interesting.

But there was no threat beyond the door as the clock began to strike.

Instead, there was a captive. A familiar captive.

"Ginny?"

"Weasley?"

Of course Potter was at her side in moments, undoing the knots at her back and unspelling the silence she'd been cursed with.

"Harry," she choked, surprise evident in her eyes and voice.

_A damsel in distress…_

The doctor helped her to her feet and she nearly stumbled, shaken and obviously overwhelmed.

It was nauseating for reasons Draco would deduce at a later date.

"You're neither a Death Eater, nor a close relative of a Death Eater."

Ginevra simply blinked at Draco, mouth gaping. Apparently he wasn't present until this very moment.

"Why would he take her? He wouldn't make a mistake like that, would he?"

"Who? You both seem to have some idea why I'm here!"

"Oh, Ginevra, this case has been open for weeks now—the homicidal loon killing freed and released Death Eaters and their families. She's a spy, Potter. Close your mouth, it's unbecoming."

The spy crossed her arms over her chest and glared at Draco. "And I assume you found me because of hoarded evidence? It's a wonder you're still on the force."

"Well, if any of you lot could do your bloody job—"

"Stop it!" Potter barked and pointed a warning finger in Draco's direction—like a scolded dog. "Ginny, are you all right?"

"I'm fine, Harry. Just startled is all. I didn't expect to see you again."  _Fuck_. Her eyes were  _sparkling_. The sight was causing severe bouts of indigestion. "What are you doing here?"

"Malfoy and I are living together. I've been going on cases with him."

"I'm still very much here," Draco announced, angry with himself for sounding so childish. "And we've got a hiccup in motives now. She's clearly an outlier. Do you remember anything prior to your capture?"

"I was on location," she replied vaguely.  _Damn code of secrecy._ "And I must have been obliviated somewhere along the way before waking up here around three hours ago."

"How can you be so sure of the time?"

"We're in a fucking clock, Potter!"

He would need to regain some semblance of sanity. But this was his  _work_. And this was a  _mishap_. And his evidence was making lovesick eyes at his flatmate.

And Draco wanted to skin her.

"I wish I could be of any help to you, but I really have no information."

"There's no need to be sorry, Ginny. Merlin, you were kidnapped—are you in shock? Are you hurt? Were you harmed at all?"

"Harry," the spy breathed and touched a hand to the doctor's previously wounded shoulder—his flinch returning but quickly resolving on cue. "I'm a tough girl. I can take care of myself. Don't worry so much. Thank-you, though."

"Of course."

Draco felt it best to vacate the premises and contact Blaise before he risked possible incarceration for breaking and entering… not to mention withholding valuable evidence.

The debriefing was always his least favorite parts of detective work, and Ginevra's insistence on sticking herself to Potter's side was an absolute inconvenience.

How was he to make snide remarks about her if she wouldn't bugger off?

And somewhere after his fourth lecture, the spy ushered Potter to a more secluded location away from Draco.

In a few, seemingly infinite moments, the doctor returned alone—a silly smile on his face.

"Probably shouldn't look so giddy at a debriefing, Potter."

"Ginny invited me to the Ministry ball next week. I know you're not into that sort of thing, but I always wondered what happened to her after I'd left. It'll be nice to catch up."

Draco rolled his eyes and shook his head.

"What's your issue?"

"Nothing," he assured. "We'll go together. The entire department is invited."

"You go to these sorts of things?" Potter asked in genuine astonishment.

_I do now._


	6. Chapter 6

The sudden possessiveness was unbecoming, yet unknown by anyone other than Draco. So instead of presenting itself like a cheap, neon, blinking light, the unattractive trait was little more than an unsightly pimple covered just right to conceal it from the ignorant eye.

Naturally, it irked Draco to ends and extremes he wouldn't admit to and fortunately wouldn't have to.

He'd been dressed and waiting for nearly a half-hour for this decidedly worst idea in existence.

But Draco certainly wouldn't leave Harry alone to the devices of Ginevra Weasley, first class spy of the Auror officers.

Those lot were crafty and Harry was a simple man.

"How in the bloody hell do you dress well on a daily basis? This monkey suit is unbearable," the doctor groaned and stalked aggressively down the stairs to their common area.

"Would you prefer Wizard's robes?" Draco asked before appraising a rather perplexed-with-his-own-bowtie Harry Potter. "Oh."

"What?"

He was accustomed, now, to many of Potter's Potterisms—the way his hair sat at an angle that seemed impossible according to the laws of gravity, his habit of speaking with his mouth full to make certain he never forgot any detail, his always comfortable and unshapely attire, his barking laugh.

What Draco hadn't accounted or prepared for was his reaction to an unexpectedly well-put-together Harry.

"N-nothing. Would you like help with your tie?"

"Please," he breathed and stepped right in front of Draco—no hesitation in the least. "I look like a bloody penguin."

Draco wanted to laugh, but he was focused and near stunned. Potter was handsome. Unfairly so. Even his hair found an acceptable place to sit for the time being. It was such an alien sight, the Auror detective fought valiantly against pinching himself to awaken from a dream.

"You look fine," Draco decided and tied the bow with an expert's precision. His hands remained at Harry's neck moments longer than necessary, but he soon shook himself of his stillness and separated the pair. "Ginevra should be impressed."

"You think so?" Harry smiled shyly. He was  _concerned_ about her opinion of his appearance. "You don't think I look ridiculous?"

"I always think you look ridiculous," Draco covered, "but that shouldn't deter the average person from finding you a step above a barbarian."

The doctor rolled his eyes. "Not that you worry, but you don't look too bad yourself. I'd wager half a step above a barbarian."

Draco wanted to ask if Harry really was worried about his appearance. And if he were, what did this witch's opinion matter? Did Harry fancy her?

But none of that should matter to Draco, so it didn't matter. Not in the slightest. Not at all.

So he laughed once and subconsciously tucked a nonexistent hair behind an ear.

_It doesn't matter._

"You don't think we might be mistaken for a couple again? I didn't realize we matched."

Draco had. And he may have laid a possessive, unbecoming claim on Potter while deciding which bowtie he could borrow. Harry scoffed at the Slytherin green, but seemed to appreciate the way it brought the green from his eyes. Draco's undershirt was of the same tone.

A coincidence, of course.

"Neither did I."

The Healer didn't believe him and rightly so. Draco noticed everything. "Yes you did. You really don't have to worry about offending me again. You can tell me when I look questionable. I know your brand of honesty, now."

 _The wonderfully ignorant fool_. "Fine, I'd already had the shirt in mind. And I didn't want to disturb your decision once you'd settled on borrowing my bowtie."

Harry shrugged. "People will know better. And it's a nice shirt. You shouldn't have to change it."

"Thank-you."

"Stop being polite. It makes me nervous."

_Stop being nervous, it makes me nervous._

* * *

Harry hadn't appeared at a Ministry event since his trials—if that could be considered an event. And, strangely enough, he'd attended the last of those in Malfoy's company.

They'd Apparated fashionably late and Harry barely managed to hold his stomach, forgetting how ill side-alongs had a tendency to make him when already in knots.

Truth be told, he wasn't aware of the exact reasons for anxiety. It certainly wasn't running into Ginny again. He'd forgotten that possibility ages ago. Perhaps it was what Ginny represented on the whole—an old past melting into a new future.

"All right there, Potter?" Malfoy asked, and only then did the Healer recognize his imperfect balance and sway. "Side-along sickness?"

Harry nodded, unable to do little else. The detective led through the crowd to a nearby seat and advised Harry to rest between his knees while he found a glass of water.

He returned quickly and Harry didn't fail to observe the irony of a doctor being taken care of.

"Drink, Potter. Wouldn't do for us to begin the evening with people suspecting I've poisoned you."

"I'm probably better at potions at this point than you are."

"I research homicide for a living."

Harry conceded to that point and took the proffered drink. No use arguing with a genius. No use arguing with Malfoy, either.

"Better?" Malfoy asked and bent to a knee to observe Harry a bit closer. This sort of attentiveness was becoming a more acceptable and common practice, though still strange and remarkably odd.

The Healer nodded. He'd get used to life eventually.

"Harry!" a familiar voice called, and Malfoy all but fell in rotation towards the sound. "You've made it—and Detective Malfoy. I didn't expect to see you, too."

"Always a pleasure to shock and entertain the masses, Ginevra."

"I'm hardly 'the masses.'"

"I'd beg to differ," Malfoy replied readily, crossing his arms over his chest and eyeing Ginny with far more malice than Harry conceived acceptable between a man and a practical stranger. "But, who am I to judge?"

"Enough, Malfoy."

Harry may have been immune to the detective's hostility, but that didn't mean the world needed to suffer for it. Ginny had little to do with his presence here tonight. Ginny had little to do with Malfoy in any capacity.

"Apologies, of course. Potter, I think I see Blaise beginning a thought and I'd like to stop him before he hurts himself." Giving Ginny one final once-over, the detective's nose scrunched in distaste. "Evening."

Harry wouldn't repeat the obscenities he'd become attuned to.

"I'm sorry for that, Gin. He's not the most social of wizards."

The witch didn't seem to find anything humorous about the ordeal, and Harry didn't bother to press further.

"Come out and dance—if you think Malfoy wouldn't mind."

"Why would Malfoy mind?"

She didn't answer and jerked her head towards the floor behind her.

* * *

Malfoy managed to dismiss and ignore the festivities for upwards of two hours before he gave up on calculating the exact number of stars in view from this part of the world. It was a useless task as these stars were no longer in existence and their true light had died out eons ago.

And spelling drinks to explode was tiresome and dull after the first handful of victims and Blaise's second warning.

So back inside he went. The chill from outside was nipping at his bones anyway—a drawback to Muggle-wear. Wizard robes were built to last and Muggles' were built to flatter. Warmth and self-preservation weren't the main concern—in fact, it could probably be argued that well tailored, Muggle clothing was deemed successful if it was removed not long after dawned.

And Potter's must've been doing a right good job at that considering the next to completely dilated pupils of one Ginevra Weasley.

Even at a hundred paces away and through roughly seventy moving bodies, Draco could easily see the want in the witch's eye. Even easier to see was the drunken stagger of his flatmate as he did little not to harm anyone within a meter's radius of him.

Draco made swift work of approaching the couple.

"Potter," the detective began, intentionally ignoring the increasingly livid Ginevra. "Would you like to dance?"

"I'm already dancing, Malfoy!" he laughed. "And you call yourself a detective!"

 _Oh_ , would this behavior have justified verbal abuse were it any other company present.

"I meant, Potter, would you care to dance with  _me_."

The smile he received was one of suspicious confusion, but the request did capture Potter's attention enough to look to the spy for permission. She merely shrugged before his bottom lip tugged into a pout.

"Just one dance, Gin."

_Run along now, dear._

And indeed she did. Potter rolled his eyes as the music fortuitously transitioned into a slow song for the Healer to nearly pelt himself at Draco to.

"She was jealous of you in school—said I paid a lot of attention to you. I think she's mad you erupted."

"Interrupted."

"No I didn't," Potter retorted hastily, not in his right of mind at all.

Draco, unsure of where exactly to place his hands with Potter's around his neck in a mock hug, decided to return the almost embrace and settle at the middle of his flatmate's back.

"You smell lovely," Potter said, his nose buried in Draco's neck.

"You're embarrassing yourself, Potter."

"Like when you call me Harry better."

He didn't seem concerned about pride. "Why?"

Potter's breath was so thick and warm against what little skin could feel it.

"Cause it means you're nervous. I like you nervous—you're not thinking so much and you already think so much. S'not healthy, Draco."

"You would know," Draco said, attempting to convince himself he was unperturbed by the use of his first name. "You're the doctor."

"And your friend," Harry reminded all too seriously, lifting his head to stare glassy, glazed-over daggers at Draco should he have chosen to forget.

He hadn't. "My only one."

The doctor hummed triumphantly and fell forward again. "Sounds and awful lot like sentiment."

"Probably caught it from you," Draco teased.

"It's not a disease."

"It's a disadvantage."

Potter shrugged, nearly colliding his shoulder with Draco's chin. "Probably. Makes it easier not to throttle you."

"You're saying I'd be insufferable if you didn't find yourself at a disadvantage?"

"You're always insufferable—I'm just immune to it."

Draco shook his head, a breathy laugh escaping his lips as he finally found comfort despite the very public, intimate setting. "I think you're an idiot, Harry."

"Probably."

And before the peace could truly settle, a scream was heard—parting the partners as if burned.

Another shriek and Draco located the cause. Towards the edge of the gathering, near the doors he'd returned from, a body lay deathly still.

It was Pansy Parkinson—daughter of Death Eaters, and current right hand to the Minister himself.

Absolutely dead.

* * *

There was questioning, always questioning. Draco assumed he was suspected during several instances of his interrogation. Of course he wasn't guilty—though he was sometimes accused of being the killer.

_Who else would understand the case so well?_

Once decided innocent, probably on account of Harry's support, he was asked to provide assistance with investigation.

He would have inevitably recruited himself regardless.

Harry draped himself overtop of Draco's usual seat and sighed into the cushions that were likely suffocating him. He couldn't settle, and his behavior after a murder they were both in attendance for was strange to say the least.

Draco blamed the steadily filtering alcohol and decided to taint the air with whatever tea Harry used to muddy up perfectly good water. Unlike the Healer, though, Draco never forgot his magic—and in moments, he had a mug to offer.

"You know magic is like running it through a microwave."

"A what?"

Harry just laughed and propped himself upright before taking his tea and blowing an already perfectly tempered sea of filthy toilet water. His smiled leveled out soon after.

"Are you all right?" he asked seriously.

It took a moment to realize Harry was referring to the murder. "I'm fine."

"You were friends in school, though. And it's not like there's anyone here to judge you. It's okay to grieve, you know."

"Potter, I'm quite fine," he promised. "I deleted her ages ago."

"You  _deleted_ her?"

Really, he'd heard of the process and he was acting obtuse. Draco's patience was wavering.

"I needed the space," he explained unnecessarily. "You know how it goes up here."

Potter seemed to ignore that. "What did you delete her for?"

Draco thought back and came up with nothing. "I don't recall what occupied her space specifically. It wasn't important, nor was she."

"How can you say that?"  _Oh with the bleeding heart._ "She was a person! Of course she was important.

"Not to me or my work." He was calm, reasonable. Why was Potter having a rough time seeing reason? Not everyone served a purpose. It was relative.

"I forgot," Draco nearly grinned at the beginnings of a concession. "You're married to your work. Anything with a pulse comes in second or not at all."

He was scandalized by the allegation. "That isn't at all true, and even if it were, I don't see how it's any of your concern where I choose to place my priorities."

"Everything about you concerns me—that's what happens when you care for someone!"

"You care about everyone, Potter! You'll die from that amount of unwarranted concern. Not everyone is worth the trouble."

Potter's grip on his mug tightened and shook its contents enough to slosh the tea over the cup's rim. "It's not unwarranted. I  _want_ to care. I'm not some bloody  _machine_."

Draco was silent, going over what could have made the doctor think he was a machine. Of course Potter wasn't a machine, he was— _oh._

"Is that what you think I am?"

"It's what I know you are."

Draco wouldn't again criticize those who described pauses as deafening absences of sound. Logically, it made no sense, as silence couldn't be deafening. But this was something outside of sound all together. Pieces were moving, and if Draco cared to concentrate, he could see where they were falling and if he'd be crushed.

If he'd survive.

"Well, I think that's my cue to leave."

Fortunately, he was still dressed for the elements, having never found time to attend to such trivial matters in comparison.

"Where are you going?" Potter wondered sternly while Draco's hand hovered over the knob of their flat's front door.

"No need to concern yourself with what a machine is set to dedicate its time to."

* * *

_Fuck me royally, yeah?_

Harry felt absolutely repulsive at his words. He  _knew_ how his flatmate was programmed—knew he hadn't a friend in the world, despite himself, because of his social defect.

And here Harry was, criticizing the man for  _surviving_.

He was fine. Of that, the Healer was quite certain, but that didn't keep him from worrying about the detective's whereabouts.

_He's already self-destructive without meaning to be._

Anyone in that line of work ran the risk.

His mobile was burning a hole in his pocket, begging for contact—but the space was necessary. Perhaps they'd simply seen too much of each other.

He'd come back. This was just as much his home as it had become Harry's.

* * *

Blaise didn't live far. The Apparation between his flat and the Head Auror's home was hardly a taxing feat. He'd alerted the wizard of his arrival immediately after exiting what he would ironically label a domestic dispute.

It was early morning, no doubt Blaise was still quite awake with the new development. He would more than likely see Astoria as well—though that was never a chore. They understood each other at this juncture.

In fact, she was the host waiting for his arrival.

"Come in, Draco. Though, try to keep quiet, we've just got Rose to sleep."

_Rose…_

Blaise appeared not long following the statement, a child held at his hip. "False alarm," he whispered, tucking the young girl's hair behind her ear and handing her off to Astoria before brushing past both Draco and his wife as his mobile began to ring.

"Rose?" Draco finally voiced. "Who is she?" Blaise never mentioned having a child. Draco would have filed that information away.

"This is Pansy's daughter. Pansy's parents are in the guestroom."

"I didn't know Pansy had a daughter."

"Obviously," Astoria whispered, unsurprised. "Blaise is her godfather."

Draco wished he could see the resemblance, but Pansy's image was little more than a faded shadow in his mind. The little girl appeared healthy and normal for what he assumed to be around the age of eight. She still seemed to chew and suck at her thumb considering the chapped skin at the pad of her tucked thumb, and the slightly crooked, outward pull of her teeth. She wasn't nervous by this stranger's company, but she was observant—it was quite clear that she was cataloging Draco as he was decoding her. Perhaps not to the degree he'd grown accustomed to, but to a degree probably too advanced for any child her age.

Rose knew of her mother's passing. And she was digesting it well. She may have been in shock, but Draco had a hunch she would still take the news without dramatics.

"Did you want to look at the evidence?"

The detective nodded and Astoria gestured in the same direction her husband wandered off to.

"Tell him I'm trying to get her to sleep. And don't get too short with him tonight. He doesn't have the patience and neither do I."

Without an ounce of snark, Draco complied. An ornery Astoria was never one to be trifled with.

Blaise sat surrounded by images of deceased persons. In any other instance, this may have been a strange sight to behold, but this was Zabini—and if he weren't constantly surrounded by his work, he'd likely never have been considered for Head Auror.

"She passed the same?"

"As all the rest, yes. Killing curse to the back, and an 'X' carved through her left forearm."

Draco hummed, what more was there to say? Blaise must have considered a guest as the murderer. There was no sense in insulting his intelligence at this hour.

"Any encouraging leads?"

"I was going to ask the same," Blaised attempted at humor—but his eyes were so very tired, and his body utterly exhausted. "Why the late visit? Trouble at home?"

"You know my work is of precedence to me."

The Head Auror nodded. "Of course. Where's Harry, then?"

" _Potter's_ whereabouts aren't your concern, Zabini. And his business is hardly mine."

"Just thought your work was of precedence to you."

Draco inhaled uncommonly slowly, willing his temper to die out. "Might we skip past the impressively subtle go at discussing the emotional attachment you seem to think I possess for the Boy Who Lived?"

Blaise snorted, the remainder of his laugh stifled shortly after. "Of course—though, you being such an astounding arsehole of a detective should know that  _you_ mentioned an emotional attachment.  _I_ , however, said nothing of the sort."

* * *

They worked into the morning, snow having collected in relatively dangerous heaps outside. Of course, the elements were hardly a challenge to magical folk, but Draco noted it all the same—noted everything worth mentioning.

Astoria never returned. Draco assumed she'd finally managed to sleep. Eventually, he very much needed to relieve himself, and wordlessly excused himself—having more than enough of an idea as to the layout of Blaise's home.

The room was occupied. And a mere moment passed before young Rose padded out—a breathy gasp of surprise rushing from her lips.

"Sorry to have startled you, Rose."

"S'all right, sir," she whispered and wrapped her arms around herself.

"Can't you sleep?"

Rose shook her head. "Can't you?"

Draco shook his. "Not for a long time, now."

"What happened to you?"

"Did something have to have happened?"

She shrugged. "S'pose not. Something happened to you, though."

Draco stepped backwards and tensed in defense. "You're sure of that?"

"You've got sad in your eyes. Mum used to have it, too. She always had sad in her eyes when she thought no one was watching."

"But you were watching." It wasn't a question, but a statement of assumed fact.

"I always watched my mum. She was my only friend."

The detective bent to a knee to level with the child, all thoughts of defense suddenly inexistent. "Blaise would make a fine friend. So would Astoria."

"They don't count. They're not my mother."

But they did count, didn't they? They mattered, surely. They were blocks of history in Draco's life. They must have been worth  _something_.

"They're people, Rose. Of course they count."

"Sounds like something Mum would say."

Draco wouldn't know. Even if he bothered to recall the deleted information, he was certain there'd be no trace of an empathetic Pansy. Perhaps she'd grown up.

Perhaps they all had.

"What are you and Uncle Blaise doing?"

"Case research—"  _on your mother's death_ , Draco nearly added. "Would you like to help?"

"No, I think I'll try to read and sleep." A better decision, Draco thought. He shouldn't be inviting people below the age of ten to assist with determining the identity of a serial killer.

"Goodnight, Rose."

And she was gone. She'd make a fine detective some day. Blaise would most likely never allow it, but she was bright. She'd manage to find a way.

* * *

The key slid easily into its familiar lock—not that Draco expected Harry to alter the locks while he was away.

He also didn't expect to find the doctor sound asleep in Draco's usual place of sulking.

Draco's kept evidence draped over his face.

He'd never procured the opportunity to watch Harry sleep—the study hadn't seemed imperative. But here was his chance to obtain useless information.

And he'd take it.

Harry slept, even as a book rested over his face, with an arm shielding his forehead. Another arm was flung over his stomach, fingers fisted into the dress shirt he still wore. One knee bent and crossed over a straightened leg. A small snore erupted after every four or five breaths, which were deep and full.

It was  _dull_. And  _average_. But Draco still looked on, still studied because it really did interest him. He was genuinely interested in the mundane habits Harry experienced on a day-to-day basis. He wondered if Harry felt the same pull to learn the same natures of Draco. He wondered if Harry already knew them. He wondered quite a bit about Harry, and he was coming to realize how very little he  _knew_.

"Potter, get up," Draco nudged and removed the book from Harry's face. "Come on—you'll ruin your neck sleeping like that."

Harry's nose scrunched and his eyes fluttered into sleepy slits. "You came back," he said.

"I live here."

"I tried figurin' out this diary—But I couldn't. There's no trace to track 'nd I must've fallen asleep."

Draco smiled, an odd wave of sincere fondness tickling his stomach. "It's all right, Potter. But you really should get to bed, though. No telling how long you've been all crooked."

"M'fine," Harry assured before his eyes fell again. "Bed's too far. Too many stairs."

"I can levitate you."

"Makes me ill."

Draco sighed and cast a glance over his shoulder towards his own room. He wasn't particularly tired. "You can use mine if you promise not to drool on my pillows."

With an unintelligible groan, Harry sat upwards and Draco hoisted him standing. They stumbled clumsily to Draco's room and Harry began to undress the moment he was released from Draco's hold.

"What exactly are you doing?" the detective asked just as Harry made for the buttons of his dress pants.

"Can't sleep in all this junk."

He was already in bed before Draco could process the sight. Though, even the slight glimpse Draco was privy to didn't precisely leave him unaffected. It was a curious stirring he hadn't recalled from his memory banks. And as Harry settled in and nuzzled the pillows Draco was certain harbored little to none of his own scent, he turned on his heel to leave—hoping an experiment was cooled enough in refrigerator to tend to, or that he'd left his violin in any other location of the flat.

"Wait, Draco," Harry slurred, yet didn't change his position. "The bed's plenty big. Get some sleep."

"I'm fine, Potter."

"You haven't slept since the Shack."

"I won't sleep." He paced to the opposite side of the bed regardless of his words and sat at its edge. "Potter, this is silly."

"Stay 'til I sleep."

"What good will that do?"

Draco could feel the dip at Harry's side change pressures. He must have turned onto his back and there was no need to ensure the fact.

But he would anyway. And he would be met with Harry's sleepy, and concerned face. Worry lines would wrinkle his brow. His glasses would be askew.

And Draco would remove them carefully, placing them on the table to his right.

"You're not all right," Harry observed. "You look sad."

"Pansy had a daughter," he croaked after a beat—not realizing his throat was in the very same condition as his stomach. "She's remarkable."

"Does that surprise you?"

"Little does."

Harry's lips quirked and fell again. "I'm sorry for my words earlier. I had no right."

"Didn't make them any less true. You were being honest. Friends are honest with each other."

"Friends aren't cruel."

"Harry," began quietly. "We were always cruel to each other. It's in our nature."

"We weren't friends then. We hated each other."

His breathing was shallow and even as he finally settled atop the covers, leaning against the headboard and twining his fingers together. "I never hated you," Draco confessed—eyes dead ahead. "I wasn't cruel because I hated you. I was cruel because I admired you."

"I was cruel because you were up to trouble. I don't know if there was any time I hated you completely. I don't believe I ever admired you, though."

The detective nodded and swallowed audibly.

"That doesn't mean I don't admire you now. I do. Very much so. You're quite good at what you do. And I think you forget sometimes that you're human, too. But you remember eventually."

"Sleep, Potter. You're embarrassing yourself."

Harry hummed, his breath becoming even in his sudden sleep. Draco would follow soon after, slow at first—then all at once.


End file.
